Oyama: Her Story

CHAPTER 41

Its my second year teaching Grade 7’s Natural Sciences and Technology. For as long as I can remember, I have loved seeing the glow in children’s eyes when they learn something knew or they finally understand something they never understood. My father never like me being a teacher, he always thought I could be more like him a business minded person, but if he has shown me anything in my whole life is that I don’t have the heartlessness needed to be a business owner in this country. The amount of backstabbing and betraying one has to do to flourish is disgusting, but it put food on our tables, it also molded my brothers into the men they are today.
My oldest brother, Nkosinathi he’s 37 and married, has 2 kids my nephews, he sometimes just detaches from his wife and sons whenever our father visits him, because he doesn’t want our father thinking he’s getting soft.
My father had no need for softness in his boys, in me he had which is why Nqobizitha 34, single, not to say he hates me, but there is a underlying seemingness of hatred for me in him.
Omuhle 30 is my favorite brother, he has a girlfriend which he adores, he doesn’t live in Gauteng, he lives in Kwa-Zulu with his girlfriend in Durban he works for the family, but he’s the only one who can look our father in the eyes and say, ‘Fuck off,’ or ‘no’.
Then there’s Nhlanhla 27, he doesn’t live in South Africa anymore, he lives in Brunei working as Petroleum Engineer, he has a girlfriend that side a Bruneian. Our dads gonna have a heart attack when he finds out he’s not dating a black woman. When he visits in a few months. Then there’s me, Nandi 23, and I’m a teacher.

My phone rings while I’m driving, “Hello” I answer.
“You just say, hello you don’t say, Hello mama” my mom teases.
“Hello mama, how are you?” I ask.
“I’m good, you still coming to Rockets right?” she asks.
“Yes, I’m on my way as we speak” I say.
“OK will see you there” she says.
I love my mom, she was the only soft thing my father had, the only thing that could soften his heart from any angers he has. I truly believe if my mother was never around, my father would’ve been worse than what he was to the boys growing up.
I mean when I was 7 and Nqoba was 18, he punched him in the face, because of what till today, I don’t know, but Nqoba didn’t just take it, they 2 actually fought, until my mother came home and spilt them up.
Everyone sees my father as the perfect man, the Leader of Boyabenyathi Group. But all he is, is a man who couldn’t differentiate between enemy and friend when discipling his sons. I don’t mind that my brothers may hate me, I understand why, but I hate that they don’t hate him enough to just leave him alone.

I arrive at Rockets a little later than planned, the roads busier than usual for a Thursday night. The vibrant hum of life surrounds me as I step out of my car—people laughing, chatting, and clinking glasses just beyond the restaurant's glass doors. My mom always picks places like this when she wants us to catch up. It’s her way of reminding me that life is still full of color and joy, even if I’ve spent my week stuck in classrooms surrounded by the dull greys of chalkboards.

Inside, she’s already seated in a cozy corner booth, sipping on a cocktail that matches her bright, floral dress. Her energy is magnetic, even from across the room. She waves at me, her bracelets jingling on her wrist.
She and my dad have been living in Kwa-Zulu because he has gotten a bit old and wants to live on his farm, like all old people do when they are tired of the city, which leaves me and Nqoba in the house in Alberton and Nkosinathi and his wife, because they needed to keep an eye on Nqoba, because my brother can be a wild one. A REAL Wild one.
“How’s teaching going?” she asks.
“Good” I say.
“Have you seen that post your father, sent you about Kearsney College?” she asks.
“Yes, I’m not gonna apply there, because I’m not doing this for the money” I say.
“So you gonna keep teaching at that school in Katlehong?” she asks.
“Yep, you should come sometime and you’ll see why I can’t leave those children” I say, “They deserve the same education, I got”
My mom gives me a look that’s part admiration and part worry. She’s proud of me, I can tell, but she’s also concerned about what she sees as my stubbornness. It’s the same look she used to give my dad when he’d refuse to see reason about anything.
She smiles softly, reaching across the table to touch my hand.
“You’ve got my heart, you know that?”